Sleeping Beauty
by La Guera
Summary: Sometimes, a kiss really can banish the darkness.


Disclaimer(s): All recognizable people, places, and events in the CSI:NYverse are property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and Alliance-Atlantis. No infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.

All recognizable people, places, and events in the HPverse are property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Bloomsbury Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. In all cases, no infringement is intended, and no profit is being made. For entertainment only.

**A/N: **The end. No more. There will be other stories in this continuity, but not for a while. I'd like to finish and polish them first.

She awoke to the softness of his kisses, led to bleary awareness by the coaxing warmth of his lips. Eyes still closed, she turned her face to his and murmured incomprehensible syllables of contentment. A throaty chuckle and another kiss, more insistent than the last. The barest hint of tongue against her lips.

"Don' do that, baby," she muttered groggily. "I've got lip crust." But her lips parted all the same.

He had kissed her for the first time eight weeks after their painful chance meeting on 34th. He'd driven her home from a date at the diner, and they'd been standing in the chilly March air, breath mingling in the darkness in a wisp of prescience. She'd just settled into her chair and was adjusting her skirt and muffler, and he'd loomed protectively over her, shielding her from the worst of the wind with his broad shoulders. He'd shuffled from foot to foot while she fiddled and fussed, hands stuffed into the deep pockets of his overcoat.

"I had a wonderful time tonight," she'd said, and reached up to adjust his muffler. Such a stupid, glib phrase, but she hadn't known how to express the feelings he inspired in her-the happiness that prompted her heart to skip giddily inside her chest whenever she saw him striding down the sidewalk or heard his voice on the other end of the line.

_It's Don! It's Don_, her heart would cry, and the smile that crossed her face was a song thwarted.

Even if she'd known how to speak the words, she'd been terrified to utter them, lest it prove the incantation to break the spell, the _Finite incantatem _to unthread the delicate weave of that ancient magic. All her life, to express longing was to invite ridicule, to ensure that the desired object was forever out of reach. Dolls were for children who would not break them with idiot fingers, and ponies were for little girls who could ride them. And princes were for pretty girls with strong legs and pink lips. There would be no Prince Charming astride a white horse for her; just balding, tired-eyed men in white coats to offer her chariots of aluminum and roses with no petals, only hypodermic thorns.

So, she'd kept her counsel and loved from afar. It was good enough, she'd told herself, that she could be so close to beauty and kindness, could warm herself in its lovely reflection. It was better than losing him altogether in a moment of rash hope. If friendship was all she could hope for, then it least it would be true, because Don Flack was a good man, the perfect knight for someone else.

He'd smiled at her and rubbed his nape with one leather-gloved hand. "Yeah, me, too. You want me to walk you up?"

"No, thanks. I'm okay."

"Okay," he'd said, and on any other night like that he'd given her a hug and a chaste peck on the forehead and strode to the driver's side with a wave, but that night, he'd simply looked at her, eyes heavy-lidded and speculative and impossibly blue.

Her mouth had gone dry, and her pulse had sped up. "Well. I-,"

And then he'd slowly bent, cupped her head, and kissed her. She'd been so startled that her eyes had gone wide, and she'd seen his dainty, black lashes flutter. Then that gentle, inquiring brush of tongue had come, just like now, and just like now, she'd stopped thinking and simply reacted.

She hadn't known what she was doing, but she'd wanted more of it, and so she'd parted her lips and closed her eyes and let her own tongue dart cautiously forward. That was all the encouragement he'd needed, and he'd pulled her to him, supporting her weight against his. He'd been heavy and solid against her bony frame, and the sound of his breath rushing through his nostrils sent dizzying waves of want through her bones. They settled into the pit of her stomach and between her unsteady legs, and each gentle stroke of his tongue was relived in the sensitive engorged flesh of her clit. She'd clung to his neck to stay upright, and hips that had never moved save under fiercest duress had surged forward of their own volition to find greater contact. He'd responded in kind, and she'd felt his hardness through the fabric of his pants. She'd whimpered helplessly into his mouth.

_I'm Sleeping Beauty, _she'd thought ridiculously. _I'm Sleeping Beauty, and he's come to wake me from my long slumber. _It was a string of nonsense, child magic she should long since have outgrown, but it was the only thought to which she could hold while the world realigned under her feet.

And it was true. She was awake for the first time since sixteen, when life had been sweetened by the intoxicating thrum of Unforgivables in her veins. Night was black as oil, and the chill air was cold steel on prickling skin. The heat of his kiss was white and molten and flooded her mouth with every exhalation. She was acutely aware of every place their bodies met-the hard plate of his sternum, the softer press of belly, the firm surety of his arm around her stiff, loose-jointed hips. And the pliant pulsepoint of his lips, of course, the fulcrum upon which the universe was suddenly balanced. That most of all.

But if that kiss had been an awakening, it had also been a curse, because she had known then that "a good friend" wouldn't be enough. Not with him, not ever. She had to have this or nothing, and if nothing was the choice Fate conspired to make for her, then the emptiness of his parting would consume her and leave nothing but dust in its wake.

Soft kisses and slow kisses and kisses accompanied by the lingering, seductive trail of his fingers over her scalp and down her thin nape. Coupling in a kiss. Then his broad hand had drifted down and cupped her breast, and the world had gone white. Even through three layers of clothing, the contact had set her nerve endings ablaze, and her nipple had furled into a hard, needy peak. She'd been sure she was going to come on the spot, and if the touch had continued, she might have done, but her knees had buckled, and he'd mistaken weak-kneed lust for muscle exhaustion.

"Oh, sorry," he'd mumbled apologetically, and eased her into her chair. "Guess I wasn't thinkin'."

"Uh huh," was all she could manage. "Trust me. Neither was I."

He'd laughed and taken an unsteady breath. "Wow. Can I please walk you to the door? I know you can handle it on your own and alla that, but it's really late, and the cop in me just can't let it go."

"All right," she'd said, convinced that if she refused, he'd drive off and she'd be left groping in the dark for the center of herself.

He'd offered her his arm, and they'd strolled to the door of her building. He stopped in front of the glass doors, beyond which night-owl residents had shimmered and shambled like mirages.

"Here you go," he'd said shyly.

"Thanks."

"So, I'll call you in a few days? Maybe I could bring some Chinese by your place, or pastrami on rye with a side of slaw if you're sick of Mooshu?" He'd rocked back on his heels and favored her with an uncertain grin.

"I'd like that," she'd said softly, and cringed at the blush that had risen to her cheeks.

"Good, so, okay." He'd kissed the crown of her head and then her lips, and then he'd turned and gone back to his car.

Her lips had tingled where he'd kissed her, and for the rest of the night, she'd paced the apartment with the memory of his hand on her breast, and it had ached and burned with unfulfilled need. She'd tried to drown the sensation in the shower, but it remained long after the water had gone cold and knobbled her skin into hard, blue knots of gooseflesh. She'd tried to knead it away, but it had only spread, and so she'd masturbated furiously, torn between exhilaration and shame and biting the pillow to muffle her cries.

He'd come over three nights later with a sack of deli sandwiches and pickles, and they'd watched the Rangers game. She'd pillowed against his chest and savored the vinegary taste of pickle brine while he took monstrous bites of pastrami and slaw and derided incompetence with angry snorts and the occasional bellow of, "Oh, for fuck's sake! Bunch of pussies." She hadn't the foggiest idea what he was railing against, but she'd had to bite the inside of her cheek to stifle laughter at his increasing pique.

He'd taught her about the quiet surety of love that night. There hadn't been any grand declarations or passionate lovemaking on the couch. Those would come later, fierce and frequent and wonderful. That night, she'd learned that love was pickles and slaw and finding out that your apartment was cozier with the sound of him swearing at the starting wingman in an accent so thick, it reminded you of Swahili. She'd watched him scowling thunderously at the TV and realized that she wanted more of these moments. And he'd given them to her, each one an unwitting gift that she'd treasured.

He'd brought her off for the first time one night in June, had finger-fucked her in the passenger seat of his squad car. No one had ever touched her there, in her secret, sacred place, and she could only buck and twist and gibber while the rough pads of his fingers remolded her in the image of a glistening Aphrodite.

It amazed her, the details she could still recall from that night. The sharp, juniper scent of his cologne in the car. The ambient crackle of the police scanner, turned low and muffled by her desperate, gulping pants and the slick squelching of arousal. The muggy heat of summer in the city. The smoothness of his jaw and the intensity of his eyes as he'd watched her shamelessly fuck his plunging fingers. The air had been too thin, too close, and she'd gaped breathlessly, eyes rolling in their sockets and hands scrabbling at the door handle.

And the last coherent thought before his industrious, pincing fingers had rolled her clit and reduced the world to a single point. _Thank God the windows are tinted._

She hadn't said _I love you_ that night, but she'd thought it in the immediate aftermath of climax, stunned and shaky and blinking back tears of surprise. _I love you I love you I love you _in rhythm to her racing heart. Fear had still held her in thrall, and so she had simply reached for his hand, brought it to her lips and kissed it, eyes closed so he couldn't see the tears and wouldn't see the fragile hope that had blossomed in them.

Later, she'd wondered if the car had smelled of her cunt, and if the detective who'd requisitioned it after their tryst would notice if it did. When confidence had come as easily as breath between them, he'd admitted that that squad car held a special place in his heart, and he requested it whenever he could. It made him feel better, he said, to be surrounded by the memory of her as he drove to scenes where unspeakable horror awaited him.

She'd taken him into her mouth that same month in her living room, grateful for once that she was half his height when seated. He'd smelled of cotton and clean skin and tasted of copper and salt on her tongue. She'd been clueless and fumbling, hands trembling as they gripped his hips. She'd been terrified of hurting him with an errant scrape of teeth or an ill-timed muscular spasm that locked her jaws, but he'd been patient and soothing, and no calamity had befallen them.

It had been funny, the thoughts that had crossed her mind while her inexperienced mouth and tongue had danced and slithered over his hard, straining cock. She'd thought of Mrs. Simmons then, the priggish sex education teacher from D.AI.M.S. who had told her and a dozen other goggle-eyed children that sex was good, but only in the missionary position, and only if you were married. She'd wondered what Mrs. Simmons would say if she could see her now, sitting in front of a man with her mouth full of prick and no wedding band on her finger to make it right.

Other memories had come then, too. She'd even thought of Gloria Steinem and her assertion that oral sex was demeaning to women. In her sophomore year of college, one of the requirements had been a Women's Studies course. The syllabus had proudly proclaimed that the course would explore the many issues facing women in the twenty-first century, but most classes had been spent nailing men to crosses with phallic nails, and debates erupted constantly over the oppressive nature of sex.

She had pondered whether those classmates who'd decried blowjobs as a tool of The Man had ever had a man like this, helpless and spread and at the mercy of their mouths and hands. Even in total ignorance, she'd coaxed intoxicating noises from his throat, noises that had resonated beneath her skin like electrical impulse. Then her tongue had swirled over his glans, and the unexpected surge of his hips had blotted philosophy from her mind. She'd no longer given a damn what Mrs. Simmons, Gloria Steinem, or anyone else thought if she could make him do that again.

She had made him do that again, and near the end, when her mouth had discovered the magical rhythm, he'd rolled his hips, gently fisted his hands in her hair, and muttered, "Holy _fuck, _doll." Choked and desperate and gorgeous, and her hips had jerked in sympathetic rhythm in her chair.

She'd told him she'd loved him that night, whispered it into the sweaty, trembling flesh of his thighs and the coarse, black hairs that surrounded his sated, glistening cock. Her heart had been in her too-small throat and she'd waited for the familiar sting of incredulous rejection.

But that hands that had been stroking her hair had never faltered, had never even slowed. "I love you, too, doll," had come the simple reply, and then he'd lifted her to her feet and kissed her, reclaimed himself from her mouth. They'd moved to the couch after that, and she'd curled happily against him, dazed by a flood of sudden, inexpressible happiness. She'd dozed after a while, and she would have stayed there all night had not his pager gone off and beckoned him to be the harbinger of someone else's sorrow. He'd left her with a reluctant, lingering kiss and his aftertaste on her tongue.

He'd sent her a basket of sunflowers the next day, and the note that had come with them had read simply, _Last night was fantastic. I'm only sorry I had to leave. Dinner tonight? Love, Don. _The note had made it real, his declaration of the night before. She still had the card from those sunflowers, tucked into a lockbox she kept hidden beneath the bed. It was yellow now, and curled at the edges from fond handling, but she still took it out occasionally to read it and turn it over in her hands and imagine that she could still smell his cologne.

There were other things inside the box, too. A takeout menu from the diner where they'd had so many of their early dates. The ticket stubs from the game at Yankee Stadium where she'd known it was for keeps. A linen napkin she'd lifted from the restaurant on the night he proposed. One of his most hideous ties, stolen in an act of mercy. A wedding invitation. Love letters written in his distinct Don tongue, fumbling and awkward and filled with incalculable love. The positive pregnancy test that had heralded Junior. The stump of Junior's umbilical cord, preserved in a plastic evidence bag.

And one item that was not as gentle as the rest. A scrap of bloody shirt. She'd demanded it of the paramedics who had cut it from his body on the mad rush to the hospital. No one-not even the department shrink she'd once visited with Don after the bombing to fulfill his mandated visit quota-knew she had it, and if someone had asked her why she'd kept it, she could have offered them no rational answer.

She had kept it because it was a stark lesson in both the fragility and ferocity of love. The bloodstain had faded to an innocuous, rusty, blotch, but when she'd snatched the shirt from the puzzled, faintly-disgusted hands of the paramedic, it had been a dark, damp red that had smelled of copper, the same pungent scent that tickled her nose when she worked between his legs. She'd bunched it in her frozen, trembling hands and absorbed its pitiless message through her palms. _All that you love can disappear._

She'd hated that shirt for the message it carried, but she'd loved it for its beautiful corollary: _Love does not surrender easily. _His wounds should have been fatal, but he had hung on for her, breathed in defiance of the darkness that had fallen over him. With the distance of time, he'd told her that he'd heard her calling to him while he dreamed in black shoals. Not everything, but pretty snatches of color and home. Box scores and weather reports and quiet, broken _I love yous _like alleluia in the silence of the room. That shirt was proof of how hard he was willing to fight to stay with her. So she kept it with all her glittering trophies, its tattered fabric priceless and eloquent beyond measure.

She'd given herself to him on August 18th, 2001, in his bed that was now theirs. He'd brought her home from the ballgame, exhilarated and thrumming with nervous energy. He'd kissed her again and again, soft, thorough, endless kisses that tasted of mustard and relish and onions and made her heart thud and stutter inside her chest. He'd laughed while she'd fumbled with his buttons, and her tenuous coordination had deserted her, completely, smothered by lust.

He hadn't realized she'd been a virgin, but he'd been careful, nonetheless, a perfect gentleman. He'd made sure she was comfortable and relaxed, that his weight wasn't crushing her, and he'd rolled the condom onto his erection with persnickety care. She'd been mesmerized by the sight of his naked body limned by the waxy glow of the streetlights outside, awed and terrified. He'd looked enormous, and the thought of accommodating him had made her feel faint.

All the gentleness had made it no less painful when he'd thrust into her, and she'd momentarily resisted the intrusion, muscles locked and spasming.

"Oh, shit," he'd said. "You've never- Oh, God. Rebecca, do you want me to stop?" He'd tried to disentangle from her, but she had held on, determined not to be thwarted in the pursuit of such a basic pleasure.

"No," she'd protested. "No."

"Then look at me. I can't do this if you won't look at me."

She'd opened her eyes, and there he'd been, propped above her on his elbows and looking down at her with those lovely eyes, brows knitted in concern.

"Are you sure? We don't have to-,"

There had been no words for how badly she'd wanted him, _needed _him, and so she'd reached up and kissed him; she'd willed her stiff hips upward to meet his, and he'd sunk into her with a helpless groan. It had hurt-God, how it had hurt-but she'd endured the discomfort with sour, giddy triumph, and beneath the pain was a nascent, budding pleasure that crested and ebbed, crested and ebbed in tandem with his surging hips.

"C'mon, Sleepin' Beauty," he wheedled. "Open your eyes." _Then look at me. I can't do this if you won't look at me._

She cracked an eyelid and was rewarded with an enthusiastic kiss.

"Mornin', doll," he said happily. "Merry Christmas."

She relented in the face of his exuberance and opened both eyes. Don was on his side of the bed, propped on one elbow and wearing a Santa hat. And nothing else. She blinked in surprise, all traces of sleepiness banished by the unexpected and tantalizing sight.

"Oh, wow," was all she could manage.

"What?" he asked innocently, eyes wide and angelic above his devilish smirk.

"Are you my present?" She reached out and flicked the ball that dangled jauntily from the end of his Santa hat.

"I could be." He rolled atop her in a single, fluid motion and pinned her arms above her head. He kissed her.

She relaxed and slid her hands free to roam the contours of his body. His nape and broad shoulders, the tapering plane of his back, the firm swell of his bare buttocks. They were familiar and enticing and comforting, and she could think of no finer way to wake up. For his part, Don submitted happily to her caresses, and his chest rumbled with a purr of languid contentment.

His affinity for touch had been a pleasant surprise. Underneath the tough, street-cop façade was a man who luxuriated in the thrill of touch as much as she did. On the streets, he was all mouth and fists and swagger, bluster and bile and hardass legacy, but behind closed doors, he was a man of startling sweetness and tenderness. He delighted in making her laugh and in curling on the couch and letting her ran her fingers through his hair while he watched Sportscenter. A good foot massage turned him into a boneless, contented lump, and since Junior was born, he'd spent many days off with a baby cuddled to his chest, vomit rag in one hand and newspaper in the other.

She shouldn't have been surprised at his Christmas spirit, really. The first Christmas they'd spent together, he'd bundled her into one of his overcoats and taken her to watch the tree lighting in Rockefeller Center. He had seen it since childhood, first carried there by his father as a child and nestled roughly against cuffs and the hard hump of a baton. His father had always given him a miniature candy cane, he'd told her once, and he'd watched the lights wink into existence like captured stars and savored the taste of peppermint on his tongue.

"Santa'll know where ya are now, Donnie," his father would say, and ruffle his hair. There was always hot cocoa with too many marshmallows afterwards, and then his father would walk him home. Later, Diana would come, too. It was one of the few good memories he had of his father, he'd said, and he'd wanted to share it with her. Besides, what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn't take her at least once?

So, he'd taken her to Rockefeller Center, and after the lighting, he'd let her wander along the merry window displays in the storefronts. He'd bought her peppermint and hot chocolate and fussed over her coat and muffler, and when the hour had grown long, he'd walked her home and kissed her underneath the mistletoe the doorman of her building had strung up to celebrate the season.

They'd taken Junior this year, bundled him up against the cold and the strangers and wended through the living heart of the city, past 5th Avenue socialites in furs and foul-mouthed cabbies in working-class plaid. The mounteds and the regular footpatrols had been out in force to control the curious throng, and the jungly, musty smell of horseflesh had mingled with the crisper, sharper smells of snow and exhaust. She'd kept Junior tucked closely to her body in his swaddle sling, and he had goggled at the noise and movement with comical disbelief.

Don had lifted him from the sling in the minutes before someone had flipped the switch and artificial stars had peeked from between the branches of the mammoth evergreen. He'd whispered into his tiny ear, secret father-words she wasn't meant to hear, and Junior had smiled and patted enthusiastically at his face. Then the countdown had begun, and the mass of people had grown still, expectant. They'd spoken with one voice, had chanted their incantation to invoke their Muggle magic, and Junior, perhaps moved by the kinship passed through his father's blood, crowed with them. Then the light flared, and for one perfect moment, Junior's face was alight with wonder. Then the crowd began to cheer, and Junior began to scream. Don had carried him away to soothe him, and she had watched them from a distance, caught in her own wonder.

Don had bought her cocoa and peppermint and dipped his finger into her cup to rub the liquid on Junior's gums. "This is good stuff, buddy, and you don't even need teeth to enjoy it," he'd said, and gently bounced him in his arms.

Junior had settled something inside Don, eased a pain she could never quite reach, and it gave her immense, private pleasure to see them together. Don had lived and breathed in other people's darkness for so long that he seldom saw the light, but Junior drew him to it with his innocence, and though she couldn't deny a pang of envy that she hadn't been the one to heal his unseen wounds, she was delighted that Junior had restored his sense of wonder.

Her hand rose from the swell of his buttocks and grazed the wattled scar over his right hip, that grim reminder of almost never again. It was rough and pocked, but no longer foreign, and in her mind's eye, she saw him, white and wasted beneath a thin hospital sheet.

_Almost lost him, _she thought frantically. _Almost lost this. _Remembered panic lurched into terrible, renewed life inside her gut, and she closed her eyes and turned her head to shield him from her sudden tears.

"Hey, doll," he murmured softly, and turned her face to his again. "'S all right." His hand closed over hers atop the scar. "This is old news, two years of yesterdays. I'm still here, and that chickenshit bastard is celebratin' Christmas with a Thorazine cocktail."

"Oh, I know," she answered ruefully, and swiped irritably at her wet eyes. "It's just-,"

"Christmas mornin', and I'm gonna kick off the gift-givin' by cookin' you breakfast."

She yawned. "What time is it?"

He glanced at the bedside clock. "A little after six."

She groaned. "Oh, honey. Go back to bed."

"No way," he countered resolutely. "I'm on second shift today and pullin' a double, remember? This is Junior's first Christmas, and I don't wanna miss out. Not for you, either." His voice was firm, but his eyes were pleading.

She feigned petulance. "All right," she huffed. "But it'll cost you a kiss."

He spared her a triumphant, cocksure grin, and then he was cupping her face in his big, broad hands and pulling her half-upright into his kiss. Warm and commanding and possessive, and she was transported to a kiss in chilly March air. She kissed him until she couldn't breathe, until spots blossomed blacker still against the blackness behind her eyelids.

He left her boneless and sated, and she didn't get up until Junior demanded her attention with the shrill cry of hunger. By the time she straggled into the kitchen twenty minutes later with Junior at her breast and an ecstatic Tribble on her lap, Don was sliding omelettes onto a pair of plates.

"Two omelettes with the works," he announced proudly. "And tea."

Her love for him was fierce and bright inside her chest, a white-hot coal of all-consuming fire that made her ache. "I'm a lucky, lucky girl," she said as he set the plate in front of her.

"Yeah, you are," he agreed smugly, and stuffed an alarming amount of his own omelette into his mouth.

Later, after the presents had been unwrapped and Don was striding around the apartment with his dress shirt unbuttoned and his tie draped around his freshly-scrubbed neck like an unfinished noose, the thought would come to her again, unblunted by the ebullient joy of the holiday, hard and unrelenting as a cramp. _I'm a lucky, lucky girl._

He bent to kiss her goodbye, and beads of moisture from his damp hair dripped onto her hands and face. "I love you. I'm on duty until tomorrow at four, and then I'm all yours, doll. I wanna take you skatin' like I promised."

"You just worry about coming home safely, you hear?" She gave his tie a final tug.

He lifted Junior from her arms and kissed him. "You be good and take care of your ma while I'm gone," he told the baby, and set him on her lap. "You call me if you need anything," he told her.

"Go. Catch bad guys."

He left her with a final kiss that lingered on her lips long after the door had closed behind him. She turned around with Junior on her lap and surveyed the disaster area that was the living room. There was discarded wrapping paper strewn everywhere, much to the delight of Tribble, who was busily building a nest beneath the Christmas tree, which looked denuded and forlorn without its bright skirt of presents. She sighed and bent to gather the scraps from the floor, one arm curled snugly around the baby to keep him from toppling to the floor.

She was Sleeping Beauty, awakened from a long and accursed dream by a brave prince who loved her, and this was her kingdom, here in this modern Eden of brightly-colored paper and dirty dishes. It was unexpected paradise, and she was happy. She hummed as she worked, and all day long, one thought resonated in her head like the pealing of wedding bells.

_I'm a lucky, lucky girl._


End file.
